


Tumblr Ask Box Fics

by binz, shiplizard



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Con Artists, F/F, F/M, Gen, IN SPACE, M/M, Oxford, Pilots, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collected tumblr ask box fics. </p><p>Prompts happen.</p><p> 1. Iona/Henry, con artist AU<br/>2. Henry/James, college AU<br/>3. Iona/Jo, WWII AU<br/>4. Jo + Hanson, pilots/planes AU<br/>5. Henry and Abe, 15 “Please don’t argue.”<br/>6. Jo's father is on parole and decides to get in touch</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iona/Henry, con artist AU

**Author's Note:**

> Various responses to various prompts in one place, hooray!

“Y’know,” sighs Abe, peering over Henry’s shoulder and down the stairs to the lab. “I really need to speak to our security company about this, and how much they charge to do absolutely nothing.” 

He turns to leave, and Iona turns in Henry’s desk chair, raising her perfectly penciled eyebrows. She fans the passports she’s holding like a hand of cards. All five passports. That he’d had hidden. Rather brilliantly, he should add. But not that brilliantly.

“Henry Morgan,” she says, and collapses the passports back into a neat stack, before flipping open the top one. “Born 1976, Johannesburg. Or maybe,” the second, “1979, London? Or no,” the bottom one, “1977, Melbourne. Not 1973, Vancouver? Or 1978, San Francisco?” Abe’s frozen behind him; the same tension he can feel locking up his own spine radiating back down the steps from his son. 

“I can explai--” he starts, and she cuts him off. 

“I already know.”

The world lurches and shrieks like a car crash. 

“I saw you, at the MOMA last night, getting all close to the director. You lifted his security pass when you let him show you where his _favourite_ piece was on the map. What did you want-- the investor list? Insurance values?” She flashes a smile, more electric than a cattle prod. “No, I don’t care. I want in, whatever it is. I can’t believe it took me this long to figure you out... you thieving con.”

The world snaps back into place, bright and a little runny, like someone had let the impressionists try their hand at it. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, loose-limbed enough to feel like he’s floating down the last step into the lab. Above him Abe is quietly swearing, sagged against the handrail. He puts on his best smile. “I see. That.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Or actually 3 sentences like the meme says:_
> 
> “Don’t try to lie to a psychologist, sweetheart-- I figured you out months ago.” 
> 
> Iona beams at him and Henry feels his heart hammering in his chest, the threat of revelation like an oncoming train, his dark eyes frantically seeking her light ones-- and then collapsing in relief as she speaks. 
> 
> “You’re a hustler through and through-” (not ‘immortal’ oh thank god she’s only figured out that he’s a con artist) “-and I want on board.”


	2. Henry/James college AU

They’re on the far side of the Magdalen Bridge when Old Tom starts ringing. James’ arm is around his shoulders, both of them chuckling at the rather indelicate remark James had just murmured about the couple pressed closer together on the bridge seating than even November after dark would deem proper. 

“Ah,” he says, glancing over his shoulder towards Christ Church, “that time already”-- and James whirls around back the way they’ve come, taking off in a mad dash and grabbing his hand, pulling him along.

The couple has leapt to their feet and are running as well: the boy, one of the innumerable law students at Magdalen no doubt, the shoes had given it away even when the crests on his clothing were obscured, has bolted for his college, still with the girl’s St Hilda scarf wrapped around his neck. She’s too stricken to notice, passing them on the bridge at breakneck speed.

“James!” Henry shouts, legs feeling like they’re going to race out from underneath him, half-skipping over the pathway kerb and tram tracks as James drags him over the bridge and down the High Street. “James, stop--”

“We can make it!” shouts James, risking a quick glance behind himself at Henry. He’s beaming like a lunatic, the gleam in his eyes still visible in the dim lantern light. Across the street, a pair of boys are running even faster than they are, hopelessly towards Balliol, from what he can see of their satchels. They’ll never get there before the gates lock. “It’s not that far, we still have four minutes, come on!”

“We don’t have to run!” he shouts, but he’s sprinting faster even as he says it. His breath catches at the sight of an unexpected crate toppled over into the pathway-- they stagger, executing an imperfect, unsynchronised hurdle, clearing it. His next words gust unevenly from him at the landing, roll into a laugh instead. It’s absurd, absolutely absurd, he can’t be doing this, he’s not seventeen, for pity’s sake-- 

He puts on another burst of speed, until they’re side-by-side, still clutched together, skidding and sliding. James laughs too, has caught it from him, and his laughter is as unrestrained as everything else he does. It costs them breath, though, and they start to slow, gasping and still snickering, as St Mary’s looms closer. 

Instead of keeping them on the High Street, James veers right, dragging them up the uneven footing of Queen’s Street, around the parked bicycles, and the bend into the deeper shadows where there’s no lanterns or streetlights, nothing but the high walls. 

“What-- this is the long way, James--” Henry says, and then says nothing, pushed back suddenly against the stone wall behind the Queen’s back quad.

“We don’t have to run?” James asks, panting. He’s pressed close to Henry, warm through both their coats, all het up from the run. His cheeks are flushed dark and he’s sweating. Henry can see the shine on his face, the slight variation in colour, but nothing more; there’s no light but the dim glow from some half-curtained windows at the college.

“Of course not,” he manages, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. He’s sweating too, practically steaming in the crisp night air. Old Tom’s still ringing, but he’s lost track of the count. Sixty? Seventy? “Curfew is for the students. I have a key-- James, you have a key.”

“I do, don’t I?” There’s something queer in his voice; he sounds as if he should still be laughing, but isn’t, has only a trace of his normal cheeky, teasing tone. “But I’ll still have to ask you to let me in, Doctor Morgan. Me being a visitor and all.”

It’s not really funny, but Henry chuckles anyway. James smiles at him, so he smiles back, holds his gaze for a moment too long-- James winks and reaches over to slide Henry’s scarf off, tossing it around his own neck. It’s quite nice, actually, the cool air suddenly against his over-heated skin, so he just flicks one of the loose ends over James’ opposite shoulder.

“There, now you’ll blend in.” 

He’s grinning stupidly, his heart still racing; he can feel both, feels the blood pounding in his fingertips. He hasn’t run like that in years-- has never run like that, not late with the threat of a long cold night spent on the wrong side of a locked gate chasing at his heels.

The shadows wrap around them like a blanket; the light in one of the college windows snuffs out. The bell sounds so distant now, still ringing. The poor Balliol boys must still be running. 

The witching hour, he thinks, although it’s far too early, but this moment seems not quite the province of mortal men. Or even immortal ones. 

James’ breath is against his cheek, he’s still pressed too close, pressing him into the cold wall, and Henry tips his head ever so slightly forward in answer to a question not quite asked. 

The last chime dies away, and in the sudden silence Henry hears the rush of his own blood in his ears as James takes a deep breath and kisses him. It is James’ way to shake him. James has been shaking him since he arrived, brash and American and teasing Henry out of the carefully built walls of academia and into bustling life. It’s so utterly unsurprising that he would shake this loose, too.

James is starting to still, tensing, and Henry realizes he’s been stood there like a post and giving entirely the wrong impression, so he leans forward as James retreats and keeps their lips together just this little bit, his hand going up to his scarf over James’ shoulder. 

“...thank God. Worried I had the wrong impression there for a minute,” James huffs into his mouth, his laughter accompanied by a tremble that Henry can feel through his chest.

“You know me, James. I’m a bit slow off the mark.” He leans forward to capture another very brief, very soft kiss, and it still sends a shock through him but he’s come through the worst of his fear and his better judgement and out the other side. “Now-- I believe an invitation is in order.” 

“Me being a visitor,” James agrees. 

“Won’t you come in?” Henry touches his hair, his cheek, and he’s been living in a world of books for such a long time, this is so bright and wonderful. Won’t you come in? he asks, but James already has-- come and changed his world for the better.


	3. Iona/Jo - WWII AU

It’s stupid, absolutely stupid-- no, careless, which is damn well worse. She knows better. Or at least she should know better. She swears, jams her fingers in mouth, and they taste like her leather welding gloves and hot metal and the stains of summer. 

“Jo-?” Iona says, setting down her own torch carefully and coming over to see, pushing her goggles up to her kerchief. 

“Took my glove off to check the wires. Touched a seam,” Jo says shortly, but she lets Iona pull her arm so that her fingers pop out of her mouth. The skin’s red and starting to shine, but at least it’s not white or blistering. Iona examines it with a frown. 

“You’ve got to stop hurting yourself, sweetheart,” Iona says, giving her her hand back. “Come on, doll, let’s get you to the washroom; we have to cool that down right away.” 

“I guess you’d know from burns,” Jo mutters. All the girls in the factory know what Iona’s old job was, before she lost all her Johns to the front lines in France and Germany. Whips, fur, candle-wax-- real European stuff.

...but she’s all right, really. She’s never worked less hard than the rest of them. 

Iona looks back over her shoulder, perfect red lips curled coy, but her eyes are soft, kind. She’s too good at making Jo feel bad about the thoughts she keeps in her own head. “Come on, it’s practically lunch. We should get there before the line starts.”

She’s right, and there’s a long afternoon of work in front of her, getting this fighter finished, and Jo doesn’t fancy spending it with her fingers smarting any more than they have to be. She sticks her fingers back in her mouth and abandons her safety goggles with her torch, following after Iona.

“I’ve got a good salve in my handbag,” Iona says when she catches up. “We can put it on this evening, once you’re all cooled off. But first,” she waves up to Ms Reece, watching them all from the catwalk above the factory floor, and jerks her head at Jo, “let’s get those under water.”

Jo obligingly nods up to Ms Reece, shrugging with her fingers still in her mouth. Ms Reece shakes her head, but she rolls her eyes a little too, and doesn’t mark them down on her clipboard so they won’t be docked for taking an early lunch. 

The tap’s running and Iona’s tying the arms of her coveralls around her waist when Jo steps into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Iona’s white shirt is thin enough that Jo can see the thicker lines of her brassiere underneath. She darts her gaze away before Iona can catch her staring, unzipping her own coveralls with her one had. It’s like all the heat of the summer’s come calling to the washroom, camping out under the bare bulb, in the dim corners, like it wanted the shade as much as the rest of them.

“Whew,” Iona says, wiping at her forehead. “And I thought it was hot on the floor. That’s summer for you. Not sure how cold we’re going to get this water though.” She dips her hand under the running tap, frowning. “Well, it’ll still be cooler than your fingers. Put them here, sweetheart.”

Jo does; the water’s cooler than her mouth, cooler certainly than the stinging skin on her two fingers and the hot metal of the plane, but it’s hardly what she’d call cold. Still, it feels nice, because good lord are her fingers starting to sting.

“You need to be more careful,” Iona says, running her own fingers down the burn scar on the top of Jo’s forearm. She doesn’t sound like she’s judging Jo at all, just a little sad, but Jo can’t help the way she snaps:

“Well, everybody makes mistakes,” and tries to pull away from the water. “Thanks. I’m going--”

“Jo, don’t. Come on, honey.” Iona grabs her hand, laces their fingers together, so careful around her burns, and holds them both under the tap. “Let’s just look after you, okay?”

It sets off something like a firework inside her gut, but cold, like the way blue stained glass looks, like cracks in river ice in winter. She stares at her fingers under the water, the bright red patch spread between the two of them. “I look after myself all right.” 

Iona didn’t argue with her. She was always kind. Too kind, sometimes. Jo wondered how much her Johns miss her, over in Europe, if they miss the ways she hurt them more or the ways she didn’t.

“Look at these,” Iona says, turning their hands so she can see the speckled bruises like freckles all over the inside of Jo’s wrists, from work. Jo turns theirs hands further, until the smooth skin of Iona’s wrist is taking most of the water. She has bruises too, but not like Jo’s, only a few, and pale.

“It’s not a pretty job,” Jo says. “But it has to get get done.” And she was good at it, too.

“Had a boyfriend like that in high school,” Iona says softly. “Liked to box because he just got all pent up sometimes and bruises cooled him down. Proved to him he’d really been doing something.” 

“I’m not your highschool sweetheart,” Jo snaps. 

“You’re restless, though. Wish you’d let somebody help.” 

“I’m letting you help, aren’t I?”

“Am I?” There’s a gentleness there that Jo doesn’t expect, and it unfolds something under her skin. She’s not sure what to say, feels awkward and six feet tall, looming over Iona. “You need more taking care of than this,” Iona says, mouth turning down as she straightens the collar of Jo’s half-open jumpsuit.

His mother got his dog tags in the mail and Jo felt a future crumple up like yesterday’s paper all around her. She’s a realist, not a romantic, not anymore. “Nobody’s going to take care of me. I’ll take care of myself.” 

“I would if you’d let me,” Iona says, so soft and sad it’s barely there at all. “I like you an awful lot, Jo. I think you deserve a little taking care of.” 

She lets Jo’s fingers slide out of hers. 

“Would you hurt me?” Jo demands, suddenly. 

Iona turns, her pretty face all wary and cagey. “Not yet. Not until the burns all heal.” She looks like she’s ready to run and Jo doesn’t blame her, because she’s got an awful lot to lose and she’s risking it all on Jo right now, keeping her heart right out where a sleeve would be if she was wearing one at all. 

Jo doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t feel like she deserves it, feels all clumsy and wanting and sad. 

“Well.” Jo says, swallowing hard. “Well.” And then she takes a few steps forward and crushes her mouth against Iona’s perfect-shaped lips, not any better a kiss than she managed with her first school sweetheart, just a smush. “Well, I think you should come over to my house tonight, I got some leftover chicken from Sunday, it needs eating.” 

“Oh,” Iona says, touching her mouth and looking like she might cry. She looks like it was a silent film kiss and not clumsy. “Oh, all right.” 

“We’ve got to go,” Jo says, gruff. “Ms Reece is going to think we snuck off to smoke.” The lunch bell goes off outside. “And the rest of the girls are going to want in here and won’t be shy about breaking that door down.” She pulls out a rag and scrubs at her mouth-- knows the shape it must be in, because Iona’s perfect red lips are all smeared. She flips the rag over and carefully, much more carefully, wipes away the lipstick that’s smudged outside the lines. 

“That’s right.” Iona’s turn to swallow, holding still and trembling like a bird as Jo touches up her lips. She finally touches Jo’s hand, and her fingers are so soft against the edge of the red even though she does the same rough work Jo does. “Is it all right?” 

It stings. It’ll mend. 

“It will be,” Jo says firmly.


	4. Jo + Hanson pilots/planes AU

He loves her, he really does, he’d have her back in the seediest port bar and he knows, without even a second to think about it, that she’d have his too-- hell, she’d been the best man at his wedding and he still owes her for that hangover-- but for the love of all that’s sacred, the woman snores like a freight engine. 

He glances at the docking display, the countdown until their slot. Eight minutes. He rubs at his eyes, and she does her best to rattle the viewport. It will have to do, because enough is enough already. “Hey. Hey, Jo.”

She doesn’t even break her rhythm. 

He turns in his seat, looking over at her. How does someone that small make _that much noise_? Her nose is tiny. It’s like the size of his little finger. The whole thing. “Jo. Jo. Josefina. Josefina Carmen Elizabeth. C’mon, Jo!”

She jerks awake, inhales wrong, and starts coughing. It’s an ugly sound, deep and tearing, and he instantly feels like a heel. Which he is. He’s scum, he’s trash. You pick up the shiftiest bugs in outerzone ports, and neither of them had thought to bring along an extra-dose of their long haul immunity boosters. He should have let her sleep.

Except-- the countdown’s jumped forward, and the little incoming message relay is binging like mad. The docking queue must have broken up. Well, isn’t that lucky. Now he’s not a heel, he’s just punctual. 

“Rise and shine, Jo,” he says, and spins back in his chair. “I hear this boat’s got a first class medsuite. Accepting transmission,” he adds, the protocol by rote just like Jo’s croaky: ‘Acceptance concurred,’ before she sneezes.

The shitty hologram projection on their old Pigeon barely holds together, all the definition lines fragmenting, destroying any hope of determinable features, but the Roc’s flight control avatar is clear enough to speak to at least. “ _Newton’s Apple_ , single-engine type-8 Swallow-class, Earth Legislature courier, requesting docking and accommodation until our next assignment. Two-man crew, Pilots Hanson and Martinez, both present and accounted for.” He rattles it off without a pause to breathe; hell, he could probably do it in his sleep.

A clear light runs down the front viewport, the _Admiral Nelson_ ’s scanners, bright enough that Hanson has to squint his eyes shut, tearing up anyway, and after images float around in his field of vision when he opens his eyes again. Behind him Jo starts to cough. 

“Species?” the avatar says.

“Uh. Human. Both of us.”

“I detect increased body heat, increased heart rate, heightened immune system functions, and distressed respiratory processes compared to the human standard. Can you explain?”

Hanson’s eyebrows jump. Shit, those sensors are good. Their ship hasn’t even docked and the ship’s Autonomous Persona has biodata on them. He’d heard the _Admiral Nelson_ was top of the line, but wow. “My copilot, Pilot Martinez, caught something at our last docking port. Our medkit id’s it as a common cold virus, non-life threatening, no known mutations. We’re hoping to use your medical facilities.”

That light again, so fast he barely has a chance to register it. “Requests accepted,” the avatar says. “Please disengage all piloting and flight controls. Tractor control locking in, engaged, docking will commence in ten, nine, eight...”

Hanson jumps forward and flips off the flight stabilizer and route planner and autopilot, just in time. Holy shit this ship is amazing. He can already feel the tractor beam, smooth as butter, pulling the _Apple_ up and into the docking path. 

His jaw drops when the _Admiral Nelson_ comes into view. What he can see of it at least. He has never seen a Roc class that big. It fucking glows, it’s so damn sleek. He starts counting engines, doesn’t even get all the ones he can see before they’re pulled into the bay.

“This is a gorgeous ship,” Jo says, glancing up and down the docking levels, the rows of ships of all sizes and classes parked inside. Or says something like that at least. He can’t hear her laryngitis over how gorgeous this ship is. 

“Grab your stuff,” he manages. “What do you think, they probably have bunks for us, huh?” No sleeping in the _Apple_ at this stop. 

It’s one of the smoothest dockings they’ve ever had, and not just because neither of them actually has to pilot their Pigeon in through the warrens of the docking bays. They even get a good parking spot-- either the avatar had enough of the Autonomous personality to emphasise with a cold, or they’d gotten lucky. Probably lucky. He hasn’t actually met that many A-ships, but he’s met enough people to know which was more likely.

There’s a pop, and the tracking lock disengages; a hiss as the pressure adjusted, and he glances over at Jo. She shrugs, and flips the door lock, disengaging the ramp. “Age before beauty,” she croaks, gesturing, and he rolls his eyes but goes anyway, grabbing their bags. 

“You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror today,” he says, but doesn’t reply when she pointedly coughs in his direction, because there’s a crewman waiting at the bottom of the ramp. And, Mike realises a moment later, a flickering containment shield around the _Apple_ \-- and them, for that matter. The crewman holds up a bright yellow contamination suit.

“Hi,” the crewman says, and waves awkwardly. “I’m Technician Wahl. I’ll take you to sickbay. But you’ve got to wear this. Sorry,” he adds. “Protocol. There are waaaaay to many people on this ship to spread that cold around. No offense,” he says to Jo, “really. Sorry. Nothing personal. Here.” He shoves over the suit, and Mike and Jo trade a glance while she struggles into it. 

“Um. You too, Pilot Hanson,” Wahl says. “And me, actually.” He holds out another bright suit to Mike, and then shakes out a third, stretching it up over his long legs. “Safety first.”

They manage to get themselves dressed. It’s not the first time he or Jo have had to wear these, everyone got sick sometimes, although it’s usually at the legislature buildings where they start worrying about containment, not in docking ports. But.... He starts trying to count how many ships he can see, how many he can’t, guessing the crew numbers-- a stomach flu had ripped through the barracks when he’d been a cadet. He still can’t eat mushroom ravioli. He seals the anti-contaminant seams.

“Oh, and last but not least-- tada!” Wahl fetches a white travel mug from near his feet, offering it to Jo. “There’s a straw, it fits your facepiece-- yeah, perfect.” 

Jo takes a hesitant sip-- looks up, startled. “Chicken noodle soup?”

“Doc’s compliments.” 

“Huh.” Jo takes another sip, bewildered. “Interesting approach.”

Wahl disengages the containment shield, and gestures them forward. “Doc’s a little old fashioned. Only saw him use leeches once though. Come on this way, he’ll have you better in no time.”

“Leeches?” Hanson mouths. 

Jo shrugs helplessly, slurping her soup, and they follow Wahl into the corridors of the ship. If this ‘Doc’ pulls out leeches, Jo is never going to let him play that hangover against her ever again.

\---

Jo climbs exhaustedly out of her hazmat suit, and flops onto the offered medibed. Hanson's in the confinement bubble with her-- not de-suiting, because it's a giant chore, but if she's going to wait to be seen, she's going to sleep comfortably. If the doctor wants her to move, they can move the containment bubble. And her bed, at that. She can smell the chicken soup now, the container set by the medibed. It actually smells pretty good. Better than it tasted, but that was the suit’s fault, not the soup’s. 

"Your blood tests are clear, Pilot Hanson. You're not incubating her infection," a brusque voice says, and she frowns. A man-- tall, hair on the dark side of the human standard spectrum, skin on the lighter side, slightly unshaven-- sweeps in. 

Sweeps almost literally: he's in an old-fashioned lab-smock that billows around him. Is he on vacation from some planet-side hospital? That's the kind of touch they do to make rich gravity-bounders feel more looked after. 'Old fashioned,' though, technician Wahl had said. "If you're going to go among the general population, though, I'd prefer you wear a mask as well as practice elevated hygiene and have an immuno-boost. Hello, Pilot Martinez-- I'm afraid you'll be in quarantine a while."  
Jo and Mike share a look through his helmet's plastic visor: good thing he didn't de-suit after all.

"You're the doctor?" Mike asks, a little unnecessarily.

"The main medical technician. Pilot Martinez, are you comfortable with being treated by an autonomous construct-?"

"Yes," she says automatically; it's a legal question and she's answered it in dozens of ports. "Is Wahl-?"

"Technician Wahl is human," the doctor says with a fond smile-- it crinkles around his face and reshapes his mobile lips. "I'm the a-con."

"Oh. Wow," Jo says, and blinks. Then: "Sorry, that was rude. I just--" I can usually tell, she almost says, and that sounds even ruder and also egotistical. She's met expressive a-cons before, but there's a-- depth, here, a sense of age. 

"I consent too, if you can give me the boost," Mike says pragmatically, cutting through the awkward moment.

"Excellent. I'll have you out as soon as I can."

"I can stay if you want, Jo," he says loyally.

"No. Go stretch your legs," she rasps. “Get some real food. Get out of that suit. You know where to find me.”


	5. Henry and Abe, 15 “Please don’t argue.”

Henry and Abe, 15 “Please don’t argue.”

* * *

“Mom. Po— Henry.” Abe squints out at his front step, eyes watering. The bright sun is low in the sky, the early evening heat rising off the sidewalk and turning the summer temperatures into something more closely resembling the inside of an oven. His lawn looks like something from the inside of an oven, for that matter. He should really have watered it this weekend; Maureen had worked so hard on those roses, she was going kill hi-. Right. Maureen.

He blinks, little spots of light dancing around the dark silhouettes that are his parents. The sun catches on his mother’s hair, giving her a halo and him a headache. “What are you guys doing here? When did you come back from Marseille?”

“About two hours ago,” his mom says, and pulls him into a hug. Over her shoulder— when did she get so small?— he can see his dad’s carrying two suitcases. Mom squeezes tighter, pulling him down a little, and he can’t quite stop the grimace when his back twinges. Then the suitcases are dropped, and he’s passed from the first hug to the next, crushed into his father’s chest. His dad didn’t get any smaller. But that’s his dad.

“What?” he says, mostly into the collar of his dad’s jacket.

“We’ve come to stay a while,” his mom says. “How are you holding up? I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, no, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine.” He’s in the same shirt and boxers he’d been in since Thursday night, and he hasn’t showered… or done anything more than fail to sleep and inadvisably mix his painkillers with beer. He tries for convincing anyway. “Really, thank you, the place is a mess, I can get you a hotel—”

“Please don’t argue,” says his dad, finally letting him go. He holds onto his arms though, keeping him in reach, gaze roving up and down Abe’s body like he used to when Abe fell off his bike, like this is something like a scraped knee. That’s not fair. He knows how his dad’s first marriage ended.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Abe says quickly, and hopes he won’t have to bend over anytime soon and give his dad an excuse fixate on the whole pulled back thing. Like his dad would ever need an excuse. “You should have seen the mailbox,” he adds. It’s not really a joke but he gives it the delivery of one, hopes it will distract them. At least it hadn’t been the school bus.

“Maureen Delacroix had just better hope I never see _her,_ ” says his mother, and stalks into the house. There is no way he is going to get those pizza boxes and empties moved before she see them. “I’ll make spaghetti, you rest. Henry, bring the bags, please.”

“Are you all right?” his dad asks, quietly. Abe scrubs at his face— hasn’t shaved since Thursday either, has he? Has he brushed his teeth?

Apparently it’s enough of an answer for his dad though, because he’s pulled into another hug, his dad’s lips brushing against his forehead.

“Come, let’s go inside. I can make you up a muscle salve at least.”

“I …Thanks, Dad,” he says. “Henry. Sorry.”

“Shh,” says his dad, and leads him gently inside. “I think we can forgo Henry in your own home, for now. Don’t argue.”


	6. Jo's father is on parole and decides to get in touch

When she locks up her office she’s not thinking about much more than the Lebanese place on her way home and whether or not it’s too late to get a falafel. It’s far, far later than she likes to stay at the station, especially in the middle of the week, but sometimes paperworks needs to be finished, and a lot of the time, it needs to be finished by her. Screw the cholesterol, she’s earned herself something delicious. And she can get some chicken to apologise to Ellington while she’s at it. He’s probably shed all over the suit bags already. 

She’s not expecting there to still be a light on the bullpen-- none of the weekly or monthly late-nighters tend to force themselves to do paperwork on Wednesdays, unless it’s the end of the month, and it isn’t. As soon as she sees who it is, though, a few things click into place.

She’d thought she’d seen Jo leave earlier-- there’s a half-eaten gyro on the desk beside her, balanced carefully on a stack of binders. That explains that, at least. There’s a pile of folders on her other side, and that pinched, five-hours-at-a-computer-monitor-headache look in her eyes. Her shoes are kicked off and sideways under the desk, one foot tucked up under her on her desk chair.

She knows her precinct like watchmakers know clocks, like mechanics know classic cars; it doesn’t take more than a second to assemble the facts-- call for Jo that came into the precinct, she didn’t answer it back, gyro at the desk-- yes. 

You don’t get to Lieutenant without learning a little subtlety; she doesn’t pull a Morgan special and open with ‘So how is Mister Martinez?’ She approaches casually, putting enough click in her heels for Jo to notice and look up. 

“Did you lose a bet, Detective Martinez? I’ve never seen you in the precinct this late without an active assignment.” 

“Hey, Loo. Just getting some paperwork done.” Jo smiles, first-trip-to-the-prime suspect’s-office bland. She knows she’s been caught. 

Frown. Make a show of considering. “Is this about the phone call that came in earlier?” 

Jo jerks her head and pretends to be interested in the computer screen. Perhaps it’s a shame Doctor Morgan isn’t here after all: they could use a little bluntness. But if it’s time for a little Morgan-flavored-blunt-force-trauma-- and this late at night, she thinks it is-- she’s ready to apply it. She knows when to wield a bigger stick: it’s all about precision. 

“Are you going to call your father back?” 

Jo puts on her just-busted face, which is innocent eyes and a jaw just slightly jutted forward. At least she doesn’t ask how Reece knows. “No. Don’t need that kind of conflict of interest.” 

So that’s how they’re playing it. Reece doesn’t think poker is Jo’s game, but she probably destroys a pool table. “You take your ethics very seriously. That’s good.” She considers, pauses-- long enough for Jo’s smile to get a little tight, her gaze to flicker. Jo’s a good interrogator, but those aren’t skills you use on your boss. Reece has the advantage; she presses it. “But I don’t want you hiding behind them.”

Too much Morgan. The shock makes Jo’s eyes widen, then narrow as she glances away. Reece backs off, softens it with a half-smile. “I don’t need to tell you about the balancing act you need to do. You’ve done this long enough. What I need is your motivation to be clear. You’re a good cop, Jo. And while I appreciate the paperwork getting done, I don’t want you in here working yourself so hard you can’t make a phone call you might want to make-- or be off your game once morning rolls around.”

“Can we not have this talk? My father’s part of my personal life. He’s got nothing to do with my work here unless he commits a crime in this jurisdiction.” 

“If I thought you’d have this talk with anyone else, I wouldn’t push.” She’s so fond of Jo. It’s a tough industry. Tough to be a woman in, too. She knows all the games you have to play to keep the whiff of unreliability and emotion off you-- knows how they can break you down. Add a father with a rap sheet to the mix, and Jo might spiral back to where she was after she lost Sean. Bad for the precinct. Bad for Reece’s friend. 

“You think I should call him back?” 

“I think you should consider the possibility. Not just tear yourself up by sitting on ‘I can’t’ and never getting to the bottom of whether you want to or not.” Uncertainty, now, Jo biting into her bottom lip before she catches herself and stops. “And I think you should pack up your dinner and get your coat. It’s time to go home. We can walk to the parking lot together-- let me tell you about what my cat brought me this morning. This city, I swear.”


End file.
